


Grave Matters

by cincoflex



Series: Casa Caliente [7]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Costumes, F/M, Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 00:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16671103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: Sara and Grissom at Halloween in Las Vegas.





	1. Chapter 1

Casa Caliente 5: Grave Matters

Chapter One

Tuesday night, October 31st.

As she finished signing in, Sara gazed at the paper cutout pumpkins and skeletons adorning the glass windows of the crime lab with a modicum of good humor. Considering the ghoulish nature of the work going on here, the decorations could be considerably worse, she knew. Moving slowly, she passed down the long central hall, spotting a few pleated tissue bats dangling over doorways, and stopped short when she reached Greg’s station. He smiled at her.

Long fangs peeked out of his mouth, and Sara burst into husky giggles at the sight of them. “Nice canines!”

“Aren’t they? I dated my orthodontist’s assistant and she made them up for me a few years back,” he lisped a bit, preening.

“They look interesting. Can you eat with them?” Sara wanted to know.

Greg gave a rueful shake of his head. “Actually I keep biting my tongue,” he confessed. Warrick strode into the lab, carefully set three tubes into a rack next to the microscope and gave both Sara and Greg a quick smile.

“Hey Sara. You going to make it to the office party tonight?”

“Possibly,” she conceded. Grissom hadn’t mentioned going even though the flyers had been posted all over the locker room and community boards for the past few days. 

Warrick gave her a quick once over and grinned. “You’d make a pretty good hippie you know.”

“Too close to home,” she replied knowingly. “How about you?”

“Ah. This is one night a year I get to indulge in a little hero worship and celebrity at the same time,” Warrick admitted, looking a little embarrassed. “In twenty minutes I become--Hendrix.”

“Jimi— totally groovy!” Sara went wide-eyed, nodding approval while Greg riffed on the edge of his table.

“And no doubt you will be picking up many foxy ladies, experienced or not,” he sighed. Warrick managed a faint swagger on his way out again, letting his body language confirm that.

Sara checked her watch and stepped out into the hall again, her thoughts adrift. Halloween was never predictable, and some years it was their busiest night of the month while on others, things had been fairly quiet. She also knew Grissom chose to work it every year thus freeing up anyone with kids to take them trick or treating.

“Hey—whatcha think?” Catherine strode towards her. The floor-length dress was purple and black, form fitting along the bodice and fitted with a black velvet cape topped with a high white collar. She carried a bi-horned hat in her hands.

Sara blinked before she could find the right words. “Wow—that’s uh—"

“Maleficent, yeah, the evil queen. Lindsey’s going as Sleeping Beauty and she always insists on coordinating outfits. Sheer hell the year she was Tigger.”

“You were?"

“Pooh. I wanted to be anything BUT, believe me. Anyway . . .”

“Whoa Catherine—so where’s your costume?” Nick called with a grin as he quickly passed by them. 

She shot him an evil glare, hands on her hips. “Got an apple for you, Nick—a nice RED one!”

His chuckles echoed down the hall as he hurried off, a sheaf of papers in his hands. Catherine turned back to Sara and gave a quick smile as she rolled her eyes. “Grissom’s got our shift assignments staggered unless we get paged, so Warrick and I are in after midnight. You and Nick have the first half and come off around two or so. Going to the party?”

“Maybe—I didn’t think about getting a costume, and usually company shindigs aren’t my thing . . .” she trailed off awkwardly.

Catherine gave a little shake of her head. “Come on, you can’t let the skank hold you back, Sara. The first step in getting on is getting out, girl. Come to the party, you’ll feel better for it, trust me.”

Sara hid her smile and lifted her chin. “Costume?”

“There’s a ton of things in the To Be Destroyed warehouse, hell, all of the Millander stuff from his Halloween shop. Half the day shift’s been consigning their outfits from there,” Catherine told her, giving Sara an appraising glance and a little nod. “They’ve got some stuff you might like—go on and check it out—you’re early anyway, right? Anyway, I’ve got to get going.”

Sara gave a noncommittal nod as she strode away from Catherine, and cast a glance towards Grissom’s office.

She blinked at the sight of the man stepping out of room: the long black cassock, crisp white dog collar, plain olivewood crucifix neatly resting against the row of black buttons. As Sara lifted her eyes to his face the shock hit her; Grissom cocked his head, eyes twinkling.

“Happy All Soul’s Eve,” he intoned, watching her scramble to recover herself. Sara shook her head, marveling at how somberly handsome he looked, how his beard gave him an extra air of ecclesiastical authority.

When she found her voice she muttered, “Mendel, right? Boyhood hero?”

Grissom gave a perplexed look and shook his head, glancing down at his dark robe and rosary. “A good guess, rooted in logic, but no. This is more along the lines of undercover work.”

“A priest in Las Vegas, oh yeah, you’re going to fit right in,” Sara commented dryly, watching him give her a wry grin. A passing tech noted Grissom’s outfit with a bewildered double blink.

“There are still a few places in this city where a priest might not be out of place,” he prompted her, watching the challenge of the puzzle settle in her eyes. Sara drew a breath, but a beeper went off, and Grissom hauled his robe up along his hip to fish in his pants pocket. “Duty calls—I’m on remote so reach me by cell. Are you going to the party?”

The last question came out casually. Too casually; Sara caught his shy tone and shook her head. “Not really a party kind of person, especially around costumes, you know? It’s hard enough to work with someone like Hodges without seeing him in some ridiculous getup.”

Grissom cast a glance down at himself and arched an eyebrow that spoke intimate volumes to Sara, who caught his unspoken meaning.

“I think I know which vow you’d break first,” she whispered to him; he lifted his chin.

“Do you?” came his calm reply, and Sara had to turn away to avoid giggling. They walked down the hall together and when they reached the doors, Grissom turned to flash her a soft smile. “If it’s a slow night you’re welcome to come hang out with me.”

“Now that depends where you’re going to be. A church? A mission?”

Grissom’s smile faded a bit, but he drew himself up, squaring his big black shoulders as he pushed the glass door open and called back, “Bunker Brothers—Garden of Lambs.”

Sara watched him stride out to his car, the long cassock swinging at his ankles, stunned. “Garden of Lambs?” she murmured to herself.

*** *** ***

Sara tried not to flinch; Robbins’ work was actually quite gentle, but he laughed at her reaction.  
“Hold still if you want this done right, Sara—I’m not used to people moving when I touch them.”

“And I’m not used to anyone doing my make up for me, sorry,” came Sara’s mumble.

Robbins gave a twinkly smile and deftly smudged more grey-green cream under her eyes. “Understandable. Let’s give you a little more graveyard mold here—sort of a mossy hint along the jaw line—what color lips—green or black?”

Sara risked a peek at herself over his shoulder in the stainless steel of the nearest refrigerator, and marveled at her ghoulishness. “I dunno, I’ve never played dead before—what would you suggest?”

“Green with black streaks along the liplines,” he promptly replied, carefully daubing a sheen over her temples. “That way when you flash your teeth it will be more dramatic. Nice dress.”

Sara preened a little on the stool, smoothing a hand over the torn and stained satin tulle skirt. It was a little big on her, but better than the alternative; a dead bride beat out Minnie Mouse any day as far as she was concerned. 

She closed her eyes as Robbins dusted her nose. “You’re in luck it’s a slow night.”

“I’m in luck you took drama in college AND know what a corpse is supposed to look like,” she replied, grinning.

Robbins chuckled softly. “Call it a serendipitous moment; and may I add you’ve got cheekbones to die for—literally.”

“Dad’s side of the family. Thin Austrians mostly. Some Italian blood.”

“Ah,” Robbins smiled. He motioned for her to tilt her head up and darkened the lovely hollows of her throat with a paintbrush. “My wife Simone’s Italian, from Palermo. Second generation.” Sara blinked as Robbins added, “Do you have gloves, or do you want me to do the hands too?”

“That might get messy,” Sara argued, but he shook his head and picked up her right one, studying the tendons on the back of it.

“Not if I just highlight along the hollows and give them a nice desiccated look. Make the bones stand out so sharply Gil will cut his lip on them next time.” The minute the words slipped out he flinched.

“What?” Sara’s expression sharpened and she stared at him.

Robbins had the grace to look embarrassed as he met her glance over the top of his glasses. “Sorry about that—but I saw the two of you at Copeland’s about a month back.”

“Dinner,” Sara interjected automatically, “We had dinner.”

Robbins blinked and he waited. When she said nothing further, he shrugged a little. “Gil and I have had dinner before too, but he’s never kissed my hand, or split a chocolate mousse with me,” he declared in a softly mournful tone.

Sara couldn’t stop a tiny flicker of a grin cross her mouth and seeing it, Robbins relaxed a little. He dipped the sponge brush into the dark paste and lightly stroked the spaces between the tendons of her hand, adding shadow and depth to it as he spoke again. “It’s none of my business Sara, and frankly if it wasn’t for this hand you’d have never heard it from me.”

Sara stared at him a moment, and he could see the fine muscles in her throat quivering ever so slightly, the only hint of emotion in that pause. “Was it . . . obvious?” she finally whispered, her husky voice low with repressed feeling.

Robbins let his mouth fall open slightly before he spoke. “Sara, I happened to look up at the right moment to catch a glimpse of the two of you and it was . . . amazing. In all the time I’ve known Gil, and that’s a good number of years, I’ve NEVER seen him look like he did that night.”

Sara pondered that, overcome by the dry sincerity in his tone. Robbins glanced over his glasses at her and added, “Or you either for that matter.” She blinked, thrown off guard, feeling heat on her pale green cheeks.

The coroner smiled, rolling his eyes. “A blushing dead bride—there’s a first.”

“The dead part is more likely than the bride part,” she muttered, “Does Grissom know that you know?”

Robbins shook his head decisively and picked up Sara’s left hand as he motioned for her to blow on the back of the right one to dry it.

“No, and he won’t, unless he asks me directly.”

“So you’re putting this revelation back on ME,” Sara grumbled, staring at her hand. 

Robbins managed a wry smile. “Come on, Sara—the two of you had to realize someone around here would find out eventually, right? Las Vegas isn’t as big a city as people think, and in the long run--"

“I know, I know. Despite the locale we didn’t consider the odds I guess. When I’m out by myself, I NEVER run into people I know.”

“That’s generally the way of things—when you’ve GOT a secret it gets harder to keep,” Robbins commiserated. He took her two hands and looked at her critically. “Not a bad approximation of a corpse if I do say so myself. Sneak up behind Hodges and I bet he’d wet himself.”

That made Sara grin; she rose from her stool and smoothed down the stained tulle skirt in a manner that betrayed itself for the delaying tactic it was. Robbins cocked his head and waited.

“So . . .”

“So?”

“Aren’t you going to give me the standard warning advice about dating the boss?” Sara blurted, bracing herself.

Robbins kept his gaze on her. “I’m a coroner, I don’t give advice,” came his bemused reply. Surprised, Sara looked up into his guileless blue eyes as he added, “But as a friend of Grissom’s . . .” Robbins hesitated, and Sara steeled herself.

He smiled, pushing up his glasses. “Just know that he takes his commitments seriously, that’s all. I’ve never seen him do anything half-assed in his life.”

“Yeah,” Sara nodded, trying to look serious—or as serious as a ghoul-painted dead bride could look, “He’s pretty much a full-assed sort of guy.”

Robbins laughed and patted her shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze before herding her out of the autopsy bay. “I’ll take your word for that, since it’s not something I really think about.”

She turned and smiled, and despite the makeup, Robbins caught a flash of the spiritual beauty that radiated within her, the essence that had so obviously captivated his colleague. Tongue-tied for a moment, he added, “And you have MY word.”

Sara nodded once, and began to stride down the hall, her long skirt rustling along the linoleum.

*** *** ***

Grissom sighed. To a passerby it might have sounded resigned or even melancholy; the image of a priest bowed over a grave would have added gravity to the solemn moment. A light breeze blew across the headstones and tiny plaques nestled flush into the green lawn, and stirred the leaves on the few trees that were scattered across the cemetery. No one was around, and the last rays of the setting sun were stretching out along the hills all around the horizon, lighting everything with a golden glow.

With one gentle finger, Grissom let the ladybug crawl onto the tip, and then lifted her up from the marble monument. The beetle turned into the breeze and opened her elytra; her amber translucent wings popped out and she flew off as Grissom managed a faint smile, following her flight through the sunset. His gaze dropped to the headstone and gently, he patted it.

He turned away and stepped to the white gravel path, moving slowly, breathing in the scent of sun baked lawn and greenery all around him. Carefully he looked to the perimeter of the cemetery, to the stone and iron gates that encircled this part of the Bunker Brothers mortuary. This was one of the oldest sections, and much closer to the road than the others; consequently, it was the most frequent target of vandals, thieves and desecration. Grissom set a slow pace, passing by a cluster of stones shaped like tiny lambs, glancing at the names: Hanna, Anna and Lee Roebble, born 1871 died 1873 Called to His Loving Arms.

Grissom recalled reading about the diphtheria epidemic, and how a hundred and thirty years ago it had swept through the community seemingly overnight, killing one out of every three children or babies at that time. These mute crumbling stones were all that remained of a lost generation of Nevada settlers.

He squared his shoulders and ambled on, his pace sedately slow as befitted the costume he wore. The cross bounced against his chest, and once again he was discomfited by how familiar it felt. When he closed his eyes he could faintly hear the soft brogue of Father Jack rising up in his memory, their conversation of almost thirty-five years ago still clear.

 

_No Gil me boy, priesthood’s not for the likes of you. You’re too fond of standing apart, of turning a keen eye on things best seen by the heart._

_I tell the truth, and believe in it._

_Which puts you in better stead than many, Boyo, but you’re young and still clay in the hands of the Almighty._

_I’ve already got a shape. And a will and a brain, Father. What I NEED is a purpose!_

_Which will come in time. Priesthood requires commitments you’ll never be comfortable with._

_At the rate I’M going, the vows won’t be a problem—at least two of them, anyway._

_Tush! Spoken like a true teenager—no, I mean that to do God’s will as a priest means you must deal with other people, and let’s face it laddie, that’s not your strong suit. Never was, never will be._

_I could learn._

_Learning doesn’t transform into accepting the concept, young Gil. To thine own self be true. Priesthood, never. Brotherhood though—perhaps._

A wry smile twisted his mouth as Grissom remembered the rough kindness in Father Jack’s words, the heavy gnarled hand patting his shoulder in brusque comfort.

Later, when he did find his calling amid a world of glass and steel and science, he appreciated the old priest’s insight into his true nature. The only people Grissom truly felt comfortable around were those who, like himself, stood apart.

Shaking this surprisingly melancholy thought away, he turned at the main intersection of the gravel paths, heading for the wrought iron bench between the Italian cypress trees. He sat down, his eyes sweeping the ground. Smiling, he bent down to pull up a dandelion puff on a stem. It was a full fat one, thick and wispy white.

Pursing his lips, he blew, sending the seedlings soaring in the first touch of twilight, gliding up and away on the gentle breeze. He smiled, enjoying a sweet, uncomplicated moment.

The sound of a car in the distant parking lot broke his reverie, and as he stood his cell phone rang. “Grissom.”

“Hey,” came Sara’s voice. “Thought I’d take you up on your offer, but I wanted to warn you first.”

“Warn me?”

“Let’s just say I’m wearing a lot of green tonight,” her voice had dropped into a warm tone and he smiled in response.

“Leprechaun or Martian?”

“Uh, neither.”

“Intriguing. Should I keep guessing?” he asked, deliberately turning away from the parking lot.

From the sound of Sara’s chuckle he could tell he was being watched. “Maybe you better—I don’t want to freak you out or anything.”

He made a chiding sound and fought the urge to look over his shoulder. Twilight was turning the air a soft blue, and the breeze had gotten a little colder now. “Sara, I dare you to name a single time in the history of our acquaintance when I freaked out.”

“When I asked if you were kinky,” came her prompt response.

Grissom paused, trying to figure out the proper explanation. “I didn’t freak,” he began carefully, “I merely expressed justifiable surprise at your line of inquiry.”

She blew a loud, wet raspberry into the receiver, making him grin broadly.

“I take that as disagreement.”

Duh! Since you were lying on top of me with a raging hard-on at the time, I feel vindicated in my assessment of your reaction. You freaked, Gris, big time.”

“Be fair—those weren’t your ordinary circumstances,” he pointed out, hearing the soft sound of approaching footfalls behind him.

“True,” Sara admitted with a light laugh. “Hey I’m almost right behind you—don’t get scared.”

He turned, crucifix swinging as he did so, the gravel crunching under his shoes. Sara caught a glimpse of wide-eyed confusion before his expression shifted to a speculative smile.

“This is a new look for you,” came his low murmur as he tucked his phone away. Sara fluttered her eyelashes at him through the tattered veil, managing a slightly embarrassed smile. “Trust me, you don’t want to know what the alternative costume was. When a zombie is the better option . . .”

Grissom grinned and circled around Sara, staring at her in the dim twilight. “The only things you’re missing are a ring and a scent,” he whispered behind her ear.

“I’ll manage nicely without the bouquet of decomp, thank you,” Sara muttered, feeling self-conscious in the dress. She hadn’t considered the symbolism of the outfit, or how wearing it around Grissom was making her feel.

Tingly.

Slightly frightened.

“True, and if you died before consummation, then the ring would be nothing but a hollow symbol of an unfulfilled sacrament. ’Tis virtue that makes an early grave.”

His words hung in the twilight for a moment.

Sara pursed her mouth and turned away, waving one arm in a careless gesture, deliberately shifting his attention. “Like all of these? And why are you out here anyway, Grissom?”

He stepped away from her, squaring his shoulders and looking off in the distance for a moment; she studied his profile and felt a tremble in her belly, the hot flutter that hit her now and again looking at him.  
Sweeter than desire.

Love.

“I . . . keep watch. Keep an eye on the cemetery during Halloween. Someone needs to, and the department is always too short-handed to assign anyone officially, so . . .” he trailed away at Sara’s expression.

“That’s—incredible. You choose to stay here and make sure no one disturbs the graves. Wow.” There was no mistaking the awed sincerity of her words, and Grissom ducked his head, embarrassed.

“It makes me feel useful. The first Halloween I was in Vegas about forty of the monuments here were kicked over or destroyed. It sickened me to think that anyone would consider that fun. Worse yet,” he turned again, his eyes blazing, “They’re children. The most innocent of victims at any time, but particularly here.”

Sara nodded, feeling his controlled anger so keenly it was almost like heat radiating off of him. She crossed her arms unconsciously, and Grissom suddenly relaxed, scratching the back of his neck in a self-conscious way. He looked at the gravel for a moment.

“It’s okay,” Sara assured him, shifting closer, “I respect the way you feel about it.”

Looking up, he smiled gently and rolled his head in an attempt to loosen his tension, the clerical collar glowing in the twilight. “The first two years I was out here, patrol cars kept stopping by and asking me for ID. I mentioned it to Brass and he commented that I stuck out—that if I wanted to blend in I needed to look like I belonged in the cemetery. Ergo . . .”

“Father Grissom,” Sara nodded. “Makes sense to see a priest here. I, on the other hand—”

“Fit in too, albeit in a slightly more morbid fashion,” he grinned. “Just keep your license handy and try not to be conspicuous. I don’t want anyone out on the road having an accident because they saw a zombie in the cemetery.”

“Try not to be conspicuous? Grissom, I’m covered with green body paint and fake mold. I’m wearing a dress Miss Havisham would have thrown away!”

“Look at it this way—you’ve been complaining about being a bride’s maid all the time,” he trailed off. Sara pouted at him; he reached to touch her tattered finery, straightening it with his strong fingers as the cool Las Vegas night settled around them, desolate and quiet. “You look remarkably beautiful, Sara. Your next veil will be much prettier, trust me.”

Her mouth dropped open, but before she could say anything, the loud creak of rusted metal screeched out over the landscape, followed by the tinny sound of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” blasting out on the night air.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Grissom winced, and gave her a wry look.

“Showtime,” he commented, and then began to walk in the direction of the noise. Sara trailed behind uncertainly, watching him fish a flashlight out of his pocket as his stride increased. The sound of teenage voices carried in the night, just over the fading chorus of heavy metal.

“—Go to Donnie’s party instead. It’s fuckn’ stupid to come all the way out here to do it, Ray! I’ll get dirt in my panties!”

“Come on, it’s hot and you know it, Lupe—I thought you loved me baby . . .” the voice turned into an oily pleading that made Sara grit her teeth.

“Even make a video of it!” Whoever Ray was, the label ‘scummy’ seemed to fit, she decided.

The land sloped, and the gravel path led downhill to a scattering of mausoleums along the fence; Grissom was moving steadily towards the back gate, the beam of his light low on the ground. Sara looked around and even as the idea came to her she lifted her skirts and ran. Lightly, cautiously she made a wide detour through the dark blue twilight until she was abreast of Grissom, maybe seven feet to his right. If he saw her he gave no indication; his focus lay straight ahead.

The flashlight beam rose and caught the young couple square in the chest, illuminating a broad-shouldered skinhead boy wearing a studded black leather jacket and jeans. He held the wrist of a buxom girl almost dressed in a too small dominatrix corset and a blaringly blue spike wig. They both looked up into the light, gaping. The girl dropped something onto the gravel.

“I’m sorry, visiting hours are over,” Grissom told them mildly, letting the light drop enough so that they could focus on him. Lupe blushed and yanked her wrist free from Ray’s grasp. 

He thrust his jaw out. “Yeah, well this is public property,” came his wavering bluff. 

Lupe caught sight of Grissom and clapped a hand over her mouth for a second. “Aw Jesus Ray, it’s a priest! I don’t BELIEVE it!”

Her words seemed to reach him and Ray straightened up a bit, chest puffing. “You know I don’t either, this being Halloween and all—how do I know you really ARE a priest?“ his belligerent question rang out.

Grissom gave a faint smile. “Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem, Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi dona eis requiem sempieternam.”

At his calm Latin, Lupe moaned and crossed herself.   
She raised her face and wiped a few errant tears away. “I’m sorry Father, really. We’ll just haul a . . . away and not bug you no more okay?” An odd little moan carried on the breeze, making Lupe and Ray turn to look in that direction. Grissom didn’t move at all.

Ray turned pale, small beads of sweat on his temple.

Grissom nodded, his voice calm and soothing. “That’s a good idea. Let the dead rest in peace, shall we? I’d hate to see them . . . disturbed.”

“Aw shit!’ Abruptly Ray swallowed hard and snagged Lupe’s hand, yanking her back with him as they took off through the half opened gate to the ancient Toyota just beyond it. The engine cranked, and the squeal of tires and crunching gravel faded away as Sara, arms extended in horrifying majesty slowly drifted over to Grissom’s right shoulder. He glanced at her. 

She smiled, her teeth a white flash through the green of her full lips. “Boo.”

Grissom bent and picked up something from the gravel: a small plastic pumpkin half full of candy. 

“Trick or treat?” he offered.

*** *** ***

The wrought iron bench was a little cold, but Sara didn’t mind as she dumped the pumpkin out into her lap and sorted through it carefully. Grissom focused the beam on the treats, laughing softly as Sara began to pick and choose.

“You think they mugged some poor kid to get this? Oooooh, two Zagnut bars!”

“It could have been a party favor, or a door prize and I call dibs on the Snickers.”

“What Snickers?”

“THAT one—the big one you’re trying to hide under the edge of your skirt,” Grissom snorted.

Sara tried for an innocent look but instead merely batted her eyes at him. “You want it, come get it," came her throaty taunt.

He arched a knowing eyebrow at her, his smile more than amused. “You know, the thought of a priest reaching under a dead bride’s skirt . . .” he began.

Sara grinned. “It’s a Snickers. Giant size.”

“Tempting a man of the cloth,” he muttered, but his hand was already moving across her thigh.

Sara laughed out loud and pulled the candy out, handing it to him. “If I’d been really evil I would have tucked it into my garter,” she saucily told him, peeling the wrapper off a Tootsie pop.

“And I would have considered eating it right there,” he replied, unfazed. 

Sara considered this and shook her veiled head slightly. “I can’t pin you down, can I? Ever time I think I have you pegged as one thing you turn into another. Sometimes I think you do it on purpose.”

“It’s a gift,” Grissom took a bite of his candy and chewed, smiling.

Sara waved the sucker at him. “Like that Latin—what was it?”

“The Agnus Dei for the Dead. I’m sure mom mentioned I was an altar boy back in the days around Vatican II."

Sara nodded, looking at him in his vestments. She drew in a breath and shifted her gaze to the quiet surroundings as she asked softly, “You still believe?”

“In God, yes. In the teachings of the Catholic Church—not really. Far too many of their doctrines fail to take in the welfare of the souls bound by them. I can’t support their views on birth control, or divorce or euthanasia or stem cell research, and it tests my patience to see needless suffering and death go on all because of an institution’s refusal to move forward.”

Sara lifted her chin. “Hey, there aren’t many religions that support all of those, Grissom. And quite a few faiths leave those decisions up to the individual you know. Not every doctrine is meant to be an article of faith.”

Grissom looked at her thoughtfully, smiling a little. “Do you believe, Sara?”

“We went to a Lutheran service for the holidays,” she told him. “Mom liked the fact that they were really into lay service, and Dad just liked to sing."

“Yes, but you yourself, honey. What do YOU believe in?”

Sara bit her lip. It was a serious question and she knew he was interested in her answer. She straightened up a bit and looked away from him. “I guess I’m an agnostic at heart. I don’t know if I believe in a God, but the logical side of me sees too much symmetry and balance in the world to deny an outside influence beyond that of the natural universe. And when I meet people who DO have faith I know there’s something there beyond my own limited ability to perceive it. Does that make any sense?”

Grissom cocked his head, his eyes bright in the beam of the flashlight. “Eloquently stated, Sara. And yes, it does make sense.”

They shared a quiet pause full of warmth, and Sara felt her cheeks heat up. She looked down at the candy again, just to find something for her hands to do. “Um—“ she spoke up, reaching for a bag of M and Ms, “I’ve got something to tell you . . .”

His expression shifted to a patient wariness as he pursed his lips. Sara steeled herself. “Doc Robbins knows. About us.”

Silence. She risked a look at Grissom. He held out a hand and she poured a few of the candies in it. She watched him neatly sort them by color before starting on the tan ones.

“Was he supportive?” came the calm question.

She blinked. “Uh, yeah, actually he was.”

Grissom nodded quietly. “I guess it had to happen eventually, despite ourselves. Al’s pretty discreet, but I’ll probably be getting a lecture on . . .”

“On?” Sara prompted, amused to see Grissom actually blush a bit.

He handed her the green M and M’s. “On allowing my libido to deal with my mid-life crisis.”

Sara laughed and slipped one of the candies into her mouth. “For the record, I seduced YOU, Grissom. I can freely state that I was the pursuer in this entire relationship from the minute I saw you in Reardon Hall all the way until the hotel outside Cold Springs.”

“Is that the way you see it?” he was smiling again, his body leaning towards hers. In the distance, the lights of Las Vegas twinkled brightly.

Sara made an impatient little sound in her throat. “Of course. I did just about everything but fling myself at you, and for a while you seemed to like it, but then . . .” she paused, reluctant to mention the entire Hank Peddigrew fiasco. 

Grissom pursed his mouth. “But I’d been taking you for granted, and when I realized someone else had moved in on you, I pretended to do the noble thing and let you go. Which was denial, which was how I pretty much handled with my deafness as well—if you never acknowledge the situation, you don’t have to deal with it.”

“Yeah well, I can’t say I haven’t done that myself,” Sara sighed.

Grissom gave a humorless laugh. “The worst thing about what I did was I ended up hurting so many people, Sara. I let you all down in the field, I shirked my responsibilities and I acted as if my condition didn’t affect things. And you—my God I hurt you worst of _all_ , honey. I pretended to be doing the right thing when under it all a tiny part of me wanted to make you suffer for choosing someone else. I don’t think I can _ever_ make up for that, Sara.”

She dipped her head, feeling the sharp prickle of tears and fighting them back. His words stunned her with their honesty and part of the pain they created came from his confirmation of her suspicion. She blindly reached for his hand, grabbing it tightly. “It’s okay. I can’t fault you for being human and that means your dark side too,” Sara muttered.

His fingers gripped hers back so tightly it was almost painful. “Yes you can. I was an ass. I went back over the Sillmont case before signing it off and realized from the seating layout that Peddigrew was at the cafe with someone. It wasn’t a far jump from there to figure out why you were depressed after that. And still, I did _nothing_.”

The self-loathing in his voice startled her; Sara turned her head to see him rub his other hand over the bridge of his nose. “Then the lab blew up, and I was so stunned that MY people were hurt, that my safe little cave had been violated that I wasn’t thinking straight. You asked me out--I couldn’t _handle_ it."

“Gris, those three days following the blast I was jacked up on adrenaline. Feeling omnipotent, okay?” Sara told him softly, urgently, “I knitted three sweaters, cleaned out my closets, refinished an entire dining room set—I wasn’t exactly thinking straight either. I asked you out, and yeah your rejection hurt . . . but it also got me grounded again. Got me back on track, despite my embarrassment.”

She squeezed his fingers and he finally looked up at her, his smile so woebegone that it pierced her heart.

He cleared his throat. “Can I apologize NOW for any future stupidity on my part? I suspect there’s going to be a lot of it.”

“You won’t be alone, so don’t beat yourself up just yet,” she replied with a hint of tartness. Her smile took any sting out of it, and Grissom drew in a shaky breath, looking slightly relieved. Before he could say more, a faint buzz echoed out.

He fished out his cell phone and answered it tersely.“Grissom.”

Sara slowly packed up the candy, looking expectantly at him while he spoke quickly into the phone.

As he hung up, he sighed. “They need you in to process a female suspect. That will probably take the rest of the shift.”

Sara tried to hand him the pumpkin but he shook his head with a grin and rose with her from the bench. “Okay, I’ll take it with me—maybe Greg can give it to Wyatt. And uh—I guess I’ll see you. . .”

“ . . . At home,” he finished firmly. “You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now.”

“You can’t. We’re on the job and you’ll get green all over you,” she reminded him, laying a hand on his chest to hold him back. Grissom’s eyes twinkled, but he gave a nod. Carefully he took her hand and turned it, palm up, to drop a kiss into the center of it, his beard tickling her skin.

“Good point. I’ll see you later then. Tell Warrick to leave the copy of his deposition on my desk, and remind Nick he’s still got two cases to be signed off before end of shift.”

“Will do. Are you going to be okay out here?” she asked, looking around the dark cemetery.

Grissom nodded with quiet confidence. “Absolutely. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be home soon, Acushla.”

Those were the words that came back to haunt her.

*** *** ***

_There were too many papers on the desk. Sara frowned, trying to figure out their order, but every time she tried to focus on the topmost one they shifted and blurred. Frustrated she looked at the desk and recognized it as Grissom’s but there were photos on it. One was a framed picture of an empty high chair. The other was of Olivia, but she was clinging to the arm of a man Sara recognized as Frank Sinatra._

_Confused, Sara looked again and she was standing in the walk-in pantry of the Ocean Inn, looking at shelves and shelves of canned peaches. Miles of canned peaches, all Late Bloomer brand, the mature sweet variety which her mother preferred—a can fell, ringing as it hit the brick floor, ringing, ringing---_

Flailing, Sara sat up and reached for the phone, barely awake as she fumbled for it on the nightstand. “S-Sidle here."

“Sara, it’s Catherine. Listen, is Grissom with you?” came the slightly strained voice. Sara stiffened. She looked around the bedroom quickly, seeing only her costume draped over the chair. A glance at the clock confirmed it was a little after six thirty in the morning.

“No. I’m off,” she replied, trying to sound natural and not succeeding as she quickly climbed out of bed.

Catherine gave a sigh. “Damn! He’s not answering his pager or his phone, which isn’t like him. Warrick went out to Bunker Brothers, but the parking lot’s empty.”

“Did you try his house—his place?” Sara corrected herself as she made a quick search through the bungalow rooms, fighting the adrenaline.

“I’m standing outside on the steps right now, but his parking place is empty here too. You saw him last—did he mention any errands or trips he had to make?”

“Nnnnnno. I left him at the cemetery when I went in to process Mona De Gresse and he told me he’d be fine. Have you called the hospitals?”

“I’m on the verge, believe me. Nick and I have been trying to get a hold of him since three with no luck.”

Sara swallowed her panic and drew a deep breath. “I left him around one.”

“Okay, let’s go ahead and call around,” Catherine decided. “Brass can alert the Highway patrol and the dayshift. With any luck Grissom will show up and we’ll all look silly, but better that than . . .”

Sara didn’t want to consider the alternatives.

Fifteen minutes later, Desert Palms hospital confirmed that they had three John Does currently admitted, but only one was Caucasian. Sara was already there, pacing, when Warrick and Catherine arrived, both of them looking strained and anxious.

She looked up at them. “Hey. The nurse is getting permission for me to go have a look at the guy. Says it was a car accident.”

Warrick and Catherine glanced at each other in a way that sent a shiver down Sara’s spine.

“It’s Grissom,” Warrick sighed. “The EMTs recorded the license of the vehicle when they filed the report—Brass just phoned us with it on the way over.”

“Just NOW? What the hell took so long to notify us?” Sara burst out angrily, glaring at Warrick. 

He shook his head. “No ID. Looks like he was rolled by either whoever hit him, or some Bad Samaritan shortly after. And since he was wearing that costume, the hospital assumed he really was a priest so they’ve been calling the Diocese.”

Sara looked from Catherine to Warrick, stunned, but before anyone could say something, a nurse scurried over. “We’re prepping him for a CT scan, but the doctor says if you can verify his identification . . .”

Sara moved automatically, and Catherine, who had been closest to the door, stepped back, blinking. Warrick laid a hand on her shoulder holding her for a moment as Sara slipped into the room first, striding over to the bedside. 

She let out a gusty sigh of relief. “Hey Grissom, I thought you told me you were going to be okay,” she murmured softly, crossing her arms to keep herself from reaching for him, touching him. 

He looked up at her blearily, but his smile was strong. His left cheek was scraped showing a tint of betadine, and a gauze patch was on his temple, the faint trace of rust color leaking though it. The hospital staff had taken the cassock off, and the shirt under it as well; in his tee shirt and crucifix Grissom looked pale and tired. He let a bandaged hand slide across the sheet draped over his thighs.

“I’m fine,” he replied, eyes locking on hers for a long lovely moment. Catching sight of the other two CSIs he cleared his throat and added, “The SUV, however, is going to need some work and I’m grateful the office paper’s up to date on it. Someone took my watch, so I have no idea what time it is.”

“Time for you to rest and let the doctors get through with you. What happened?” Catherine asked softly, coming to flank Sara. Warrick stood in back, peering between their shoulders.

“I was out at Bunker Brothers. I left the cemetery around two on a personal errand . . .”

“Personal errand?” Catherine echoed.

Grissom gave her a bland look.“Bathroom at the nearest convenience store.”

“Ah. So you took off, despite all the available . . . trees,” she began, trying not to grin. Warrick failed utterly and Grissom shot them a glare.

“Think about it, Cath—bad enough to desecrate holy ground by urinating, but in THIS costume as well?”

It was too much. The relief of finding Grissom alive added to the incongruous image of him, as a priest taking a leak was enough to make Catherine burst into giggles and have Warrick snorting behind his hand. Sara’s mouth twitched, but she kept her gaze on him, longing to touch his hand. He caught her eye and she saw him give a tiny sigh.

“Okay, okay, you did the right thing. So you took off and . . .?”

“A Grey Lexus ran the red light at the corner of Fremont and the boulevard and hit me. I don’t really remember much, except it was cold, and I couldn’t get the seat belt off.”

“We’ll check the scene ourselves,” Warrick assured him firmly.

Grissom shot him a grateful look and a doctor came in, holding a chart in her hands. “I assume that the three of you are here to confirm that this is Gilbert G. Grissom?”

“Gilbert—I never get used to that, you know?” Warrick murmured to Sara. 

Catherine nodded, giving the doctor a gimlet glance, taking in the other woman’s girlish appearance from barrettes to pink sneakers. “That’s him and he’s ours. What’s the diagnosis?”

“Excuse me, but I’m right HERE if you don’t mind including me on the discussion,” came Grissom’s testy growl. 

The doctor stepped over to him and managed a smile.“Initial triage indicates a concussion from contra coup blow at the left temple, along with three broken fingers and some abdominal bruising from the airbag, all pretty standard injuries when broadsided in a car from the right. We’d like to run you through a scan just to make sure there isn’t more damage internally since you were unconscious for quite a while, Mr. Grissom.”

“You were _out_?” both Sara and Catherine demanded at the same time. Grissom flushed and looked mutinous but the doctor nodded.

“Oh yes. Anyway, I need you folks to leave so we can get on with this. Are either of you two ladies a Miss Sara Sidle?”

Sara looked up and nodded; the doctor handed her the clipboard. “Since you’re the second name listed as the emergency contact on Mr. Grissom’s insurance I’ll need your consent for treatment.”

“What?”

“Hello? I’m perfectly capable of giving consent on my _own_ behalf,” Grissom objected. 

The doctor shook her head as Sara blushed. “Sorry Mr. Grissom, but you were brought in unconscious. Until we get HER signature we can’t authorize the scan,” The doctor told him as she pulled out a penlight and checked his pupils. Grissom flinched a little at the bright light. “It’s HMO policy.”

Catherine was peering over Sara’s shoulder at the forms, smiling crookedly. “Well Gil, since you’re in good hands at the moment, Mr. Brown and I will see what we can do about catching the Lexus. Sara, you sit on him if you need to, all right?”

Sara didn’t dare look at Catherine’s face, but nodded instead, keeping her focus on the papers in her hands.

Warrick patted Grissom’s shoulder. “Glad you’re in one piece,” came the soft mumble. Grissom nodded tightly. Warrick followed Catherine out as the doctor frowned.

“You’re going to have some headaches for a few days, that much I CAN tell you. I’ll give you something for the pain once we have the scan back. Do you have someone who can keep an eye on you for the next seventy two hours?”

“Yes,” Sara broke in firmly. The doctor smiled and pulled up a wheelchair, motioning Grissom to get into it. He eyed it disdainfully, but the doctor merely glanced at Sara, who glared at Gil. He got into the wheelchair, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

The two women went back to their conversation.  
“Good. I’ll give you the care sheet for concussions, but in a nutshell he shouldn’t sleep longer than four of five hours at a time. Bland food, quiet music on low volume, no operating heavy machinery or driving either. He can read and watch television for a few days.”

Sara nodded; Grissom could see the instructions engraving themselves on her mind.

He gave a sigh, and the doctor shot him an amused glance. “No alcohol for a few days, but sex is fine, as long as you’re not swinging from chandeliers or anything. Moderation in the mattress mambo, all right?”

Both Sara and Grissom went matching shades of rose; the doctor picked the clipboard up and gave a snort. “Patients always want to know but are too embarrassed to ask—thought I’d beat you to the punch. Shall we go?”


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 

“One of the truisms of justice is that the IQ of the average thief is roughly equivalent to my shoe size," Brass commented with satisfaction. He was looking over Nick’s shoulder at a grainy video on a computer screen. On it, a burly man with a shaved head was trying to punch in numbers on the keypad of an ATM and having no success. Nick grinned, his white teeth flashing.

“Probably trying Grissom’s birth date. Now hold on, he’s about to look up—"

On cue the man raised his gaze and glared towards the camera; Nick froze the image and hit the print button with a flourish. Brass smiled dangerously.  
“Nice. Now we have a face.”

“Considering the tracers we’ve got out on the credit cards it’s only a matter of time. Heard Warrick found the wallet a few yards from the scene.”

“Yeah—he and Catherine are trying for prints. Might do it too—leather holds an impression," Brass grunted, staring down at the copier image in his hands. 

Nick sighed.“It’s so weird—I mean we deal with crime all the time, you know—but when it happens to one of US, it just feels so—different."

Hanging in that pause was the specter of Nigel Crane.

“It’s personal,” Brass acknowledged softly, “And personal is always a little bit dangerous, Nick. We do this by the book if we want the case done right.”

Without looking at him, Nick nodded.

*** *** ***

“Man, I was SURE we’d get at least a partial," Warrick sighed.

Catherine crossed her arms and shook her head.  
“If the wallet had been in the road we might have, but all that morning condensation from the bushes--anyway, there might be something useable on the inside.”

They stood at one of the Trace lab tables looking down at the battered leather wallet resting on the surface. Warrick reached for it, his latex touch light as he flipped it open.

Catherine stepped closer and leaned down. “It’s amazing what a guy keeps in his wallet. Eddie had one of the biggest collections of bar receipts and unfamiliar phone numbers I’d ever seen in his," she muttered to Warrick, who was fishing along one of the slots.

“No cash, license or credit cards, but what have we here? North American Entomology Association,” he read off a laminated rectangle of cardboard. 

Catherine laughed softly and took it from him. “Definitely Grissom, but I don’t think the perp would have touched it. What else?” she tried to couch her curiosity in professional tones, but Warrick grinned knowingly. He pulled out another piece of paper.

“He’s a contributing member of the Australian Royal Society of Lepidopterists. He’s got a blood donor card—woo, eight gallons so far, and a punch coupon for Baskin-Robbins. Looks like our Fearless Leader here is only three visits from a free single scoop cone.”

Catherine rolled her eyes, but her smile was soft.  
“I’m sure Grissom will be thrilled he won’t have to start over—anything else?”

Warrick hesitated, and then fished on the other side of the billfold, pulling out a small photograph. “A picture of . . . his mom.”

The tone said it all, and Catherine spluttered into giggles. Warrick gave a pained sigh and looked over at her, but she couldn’t stop, her shoulders shaking slightly under the lab coat. Warrick tucked the little photo back.

“That would go a long way in explaining why there isn’t a rubber in there," she wheezed lightly.

Warrick couldn’t fight his own grin at that, and rubbed his chin to hide it. “Hey come on—for all we know he just needed to restock."

Catherine laughed again, and Warrick ignored it, plowing on. “But something’s missing here. Something MORE than the cards and cash . . . something really, really Grissom," he frowned. His fingers touched the little hidden compartment deep down on the inside of the billfold lining, feeling something papery under it; Warrick hesitated, and then set the wallet on the table again.

Whatever secrets his boss had there would stay there, he decided firmly.

Catherine looked up, her eyes sharp and bright.  
“Got it! His roller coaster pass.”

Warrick nodded, his mind racing. “Oh yeah, the annual one for that new ride at the Stratosphere, the X Scream. The magnetic strip on the back of the card will register when our perp tries to use it."

“I’ll call Brass,” Catherine moved for the door decisively, hot on the trail. Warrick carefully bagged the wallet, sealing it up and feeling hopeful as he signed his name on the tag.

*** *** ***

Sara looked over at her passenger out of the corner of her eye. He was slumped in the seat, one hand over his eyes, the other clutching the prescription bag.

“I’ll be fine, so please stop worrying.” Strained as his voice was, she could still hear the smile in it.

Sara flushed a little at being so obviously caught, which made Grissom laugh.

He spoke up quietly. “I know Nick, Catherine and Warrick are putting in overtime on my behalf and while I appreciate the thought, it’s not critical. My stolen wallet isn’t a major crime.”

“Yeah, well a hit and run is though, so just give us the chance to work the case. I’ll make you some soup and you can put your feet up and rest.”

They pulled in front of the townhouse; Grissom looked up in confusion for a moment, then shot a bleak look at Sara.

“I thought we were going home," he huskily whispered.

She reached over and stroked his temple gently.  
“Grissom, people are going to call and stop by—you have to be HERE, at least for a few days.”

His jaw tightened, and in the end he nodded with heavy reluctance as he started to undo his seatbelt.  
“Not an auspicious beginning for our cohabitation.”

Sara felt a spike of shivery adrenaline run down her spine at his phrasing. She tried not to react, but it was hard not to smile to herself at the whole idea as she came around to his side of the car and took the prescription bag from him.

“We’re not cohabitating, Gris; we WERE on a trial run as roommates and we’ve just had a little setback, that’s all.”

He looked past her to the townhouse and gave a little discouraged sigh as he began to climb the steps up to the front door, keys jingling in his left hand. “Well for the moment you’re here--that’s what counts."

The living room was as big and empty looking as Sara remembered from her last visit a few years back. There were more magazines piled up on the coffee table, and one large sadly neglected rubber tree plant stood near the far windows. She set the bag down and wandered into the kitchen.

Chrome and tile greeted the eye, and sourly Sara wondered if Grissom realized it was the same sort of décor that Robbins had in his morgue. Only the few cheerful spots of color made the place a bit more comfortable: a wrought iron astrolabe, a cathedral postcard on the fridge, dishtowels in bright patterns—absently she filled a coffee cup with water and carried it over to the rubber tree plant, dumping it in the dry dirt, then made three more trips, swearing she could hear the thing gulp each time.

“Grissom? When was the last time you even thought about this plant?” Sara accused softly.

He wandered out, rubbing his eyes, looking sheepish. “I can’t remember. Is it dead?”

“Close enough. And it needs more sun. And YOU need to be in bed so when the medication hits you can sleep for a while.”

He cocked his head, looking boyish and vulnerable, especially with his scraped face and bandaged fingers: Sara felt her chest tighten when he smiled at her.

“Only if you come with," he asked softly. She took his good hand and let him lead her down the dark hallway to the door at the end of it, barely aware of a few seascapes on the walls as they approached.

Grissom’s bedroom. Oh how she’d wondered about it. How it was decorated, what sort of sheets he had . . .

He pushed the door open and stepped in, pulling her along and she looked around, fascinated at this inner sanctum.

It was—very neutral, Sara realized. Heavy cream sheets, brown and tan blankets on a plain queen sized bed.The walls were off white, and the two nightstands a dark oak. Suddenly Grissom gave a little embarrassed noise and let his head drop; Sara looked at the small framed photo on the nightstand as a quick, hot flush raced up her skin.

“Oh my God—where did you get _that_?”

A younger version of herself smiled up out of the frame, stretched out on the sands of Lake Mead beach in a languid leggy pose, sunglasses parked on top of her head. Sara remembered the day. Her bathing suit had been too light a shade of bayberry, and the day too cold as her straining nipples cheerily verified. She turned to look at Grissom, who was as dark a red as she had ever seen him.

“Company picnic three years ago. Catherine took photos and asked me to get them developed, and when they came back I sort of—confiscated— that one.”

Sara picked up the framed photo and studied it critically. “Jeez, I look like I’ve got two marshmallows glued to my boobs—this is obscene!"

“Sara," Grissom muttered, stepping around her and reaching for something else on the nightstand. 

She glanced down at the Kleenex and bit back a choked laugh. “Oh my God. Grissom! This is TOTALLY freaking me out. You—"

“Honey," he warned helplessly, but she burst into giggles and fell back on the bed, letting the peal of laughter roll out of her. He sat beside her patiently until she managed to catch her breath, and his look was tenderly amused.

He lifted his chin. “So you know the worst about me then. Yes, sometimes I use your image to, ah, gratify my baser desires--only sometimes. I still do when we’re not together. I’ve taken you on business trips with me."

“Even the one to Cold Springs?” Sara wanted to know.

Grissom slowly nodded and she grinned, reaching a hand up to his bearded cheek. He turned to kiss her palm. “Guilty. It was in one of the side pockets of my suitcase.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or worried," she teased. “But it’s a hell of an ego trip. I’ve never been anyone’s security blanket before.”

Grissom took the photo from her hands and held it out, speaking softly. “Sara, this picture has meant more to me than I can explain. You’re beautiful and happy and sexy and alive, and when I look at it and see you I can believe the world is a good place. I can fantasize we’re in Cancun or Bermuda on a lazy sex-filled vacation, or that we’re honeymooning in Hawaii. I see YOU in love with ME, even though that wasn’t the case when the photo was taken, and that thought has kept me sane for a very long time.”

She stared as his words hung in the air between them, heavy with implications she wasn’t sure she could deal with.

Not yet.

Carefully she sat up and stroked the side of his face once more.

“I think your meds are finally kicking in," she murmured with gentle deliberation.

Grissom gave a little frown of annoyance, but finally sighed, rubbing his furry cheek in her hand.  
“We’re an interesting pair, aren’t we? Any time we get even remotely close to something serious in this relationship both of us react in our most predictable ways.”

“Grissom," she interjected, her mahogany gaze pleading with his. He managed a tiny smile and closed his eyes, just resting against her palm, reminding Sara of a patient dog. “Play fair, damn it!” she pleaded. “You’re hurting and under the influence of drugs right now, babe. I’d rather talk about this later, when we’ll both remember it."

Without opening his eyes he nodded, then leaned over and set the photo on the nightstand again.  
“All right," he mumbled, and began to fumble with his shirt.

Sara helped him pull it off, asking,“Pajamas?”

“Hanging on the back of the bathroom door," he mumbled. The plastic splints on his fingers were making it hard for him to unbuckle his belt, but Sara knew better than to do it for him. She stepped into the bathroom and found the dark blue flannel pajamas, draping them over her arm. When she returned, Grissom was sitting in his boxers and socks, looking pale.

She held out the sleepwear. “Into these and into bed.”

He managed a lofty eyebrow lift, and Sara felt a sweet tingle of heat as she breathlessly added, “Please.”

God, even now, wounded and weary, he could still make her pulse jump.

He took them from her and pulled the bottoms on, then rolled over and stretched out on the bed, his big frame finally relaxing. Sara pulled the folded blanket from the foot and spread it over him neatly; Grissom patted the mattress on his right side.  
“Come lie down—you need the rest as much as I do, Sara.”

“I can take the sofa,” she offered gently, but he shook his head.

“Here, please. Humor the cranky patient, nurse.”

She smiled, and he tossed the pajama top at her adding with a smirk of his own, “YOUR half, I believe.”

Quickly, she slipped out of her street wear and into the sinfully soft shirt, savoring the faint scent of Grissom on it. She scooted under the blanket and sighed contentedly the minute he curled around her spine, his arm strong and warm around her waist.

“Good,” he murmured.

“Good,” she agreed.

They slept.

*** *** ***

Sara felt the soft stroking of a hand along her hip and smiled into the warm wall of Grissom’s chest. She spoke indistinctly, her voice a laughing purr.  
“Gotta get up,"

“I am.”

“Ohhh, well yes you are. That’s pretty evident,” Sara gurgled, snuggling closer, hands moving industriously between their bodies.

Grissom gave a pleasurable grunt, his lips on her forehead, moving into her hairline as he gave a gruff little cough.“Sara, this may not be a good time to mention it, but—"

She heard the chagrin in his tone and tightened her grip; his cock stiffened further against her teasing fingers. “You don’t have any, do you?”

“Not here, nnnnno,” he admitted in a low voice. At his confession, Sara nipped his chest; not hard, but he gave a low helpless moan as her teeth closed around a hard rivet of a nipple.

“Ou are FOE gonna wegwet dat.”

“I regret it already, trust me!” he confessed, his hands sliding around the curve of her bottom. Sara let go and licked the hard little stub, then moved to the other one with intent to kiss, but got sidetracked by what lay between them.

“Gris—oh babe, you didn’t tell me you were THIS banged up!” came her moan as she stared at the black and blue smudges along his chest.

He glanced down and winced. “It looks worse than it is, Sara, really. I’m fine.”

But she shook her head and tried to pull away, her expression vacillating between sympathy and frustration. “Still— without condoms we’re going to have to wait anyway. Maybe we really ought to consider another method, especially if we’re going to be spending more time together.”

He gave a thoughtful nod, and in a quick move sat up, bracing his back against the headboard. Sara hesitated, but he patted his lap and she dutifully straddled it, feeling the warm happy ridge of his erection nestled under her against her panties. Grissom tried not to smirk. “All right, let’s discuss options. I could get a vasectomy."

“No! No WAY, no chance in hell,” Sara objected firmly, her brows drawing together. Surprised at her vehemence, Grissom cocked his head and she pinkened a little, pressing on. “I just don’t want you subjecting yourself to a surgical procedure, no matter how outpatient or routine people claim it is. Taking away your option is NOT an option, not in my book.”

Grissom paused.“Truth to tell it wasn’t really my preferred choice, but I wanted you to know I HAVE considered it, Sara.” His voice was low and gentle; he stroked her hair.

She gave a nod."Considered, rejected. Let’s talk Pill. I was on a nice low dose prescription before,” Sara shifted a little, feeling a bit flushed. Although Grissom didn’t say anything, she could feel him throb against her; the tantalizing knowledge that only two thin layers of clothing lay between them made her squirmy.

“Any side effects? Problems?” he murmured, letting his hands slide down her back against the flannel.

Sara paused and he waited until she confessed,  
“I did forget a few times—when I was pulling doubles, and I didn’t get home in time for the next dose. I probably should have brought them with me, but even then—my purse is in the locker most of the time."

Grissom chuckled, and hugged her close against his bare chest, resting his cheek on the top of her head.  
“We’ll set that one aside for the moment then—what else? Diaphragm?”

Sara laughed loudly. “Messy, awkward and NOT my style, babe—Actually, I was thinking about those new patches they have now. I’d still be getting my hormone dosage on a steady basis and you could help me stick them on."

“And peel them off," he replied softly, his hands gliding back down her flannel covered spine in a slow seductive caress.

Sara nodded, then gasped.“It’s nearly two and you haven’t eaten anything," she chided herself.

“Would it be too much to hope I could start with a brunette?”

Sara snorted and climbed off his lap, her long legs unfolding as she stood to stretch; Grissom watched her with a sigh of regret as he reached for the blanket. Out in the kitchen, the phone rang and Sara quivered. He nodded, motioning for her to go and she sprinted away while he slowly got up and headed for the bathroom.

By the time he’d finished with his shower and wandered into the kitchen, a dressed and busy Sara had already started a pot of soup; a pair of empty cans sat on the counter.

He studied them.“Pea soup and Tomato soup?”

“Yeah, mixed together. You put in a little curry or chili powder and it’s really good. Mom serves it at the Inn that way,” she told him absently as she stirred.“The call was from Brass—they nailed the guy who hit you. Apparently he used your X Scream pass, and it registered with security at the hotel. Brass was waiting for him as he got off the ride.”

“What evidence?” Grissom frowned, looking in a cupboard and finding a box of croutons.

A corner of Sara’s mouth went up. “His grey Lexus had front end damage with paint scrapes matching the Tahoe, not that we needed it since he confessed.”

Grissom gave a nod as he opened the box, pouring a few out and crunching on them. Sara carefully poured the soup into two mugs and handed him one.

“Careful, it’s hot—“ she cautioned. He took it and reached for the two prescription bottles as Sara carried her soup over to the glass table and sat down.

They were halfway through their meal when the doorbell rang; Sara rose before he did and answered it.

Out on the welcome mat, Warrick and Catherine stood smiling. Warrick waved the baggie containing the wallet over his partner’s head; Catherine looked up at it, grinning.

“Thought we’d deliver this in person," she told Sara, who stepped back to let them in. Grissom smiled and took the baggie, signing the sheet of paper Catherine handed to him as well.

“There, all legal and in order. So—how’s the head?” as she spoke, she looked around the room, scanning it out of habit. Warrick smiled at Sara.

“Still a little sore," Grissom murmured, fishing his wallet out of the baggie and examining it. Warrick caught the tiny flash on his face as he opened the wallet wide, and cleared his throat, making Grissom look up. In one understanding instant between them all was clear. Grissom flashed a quick smile of gratitude and Warrick looked away, amused that the unspoken bond of masculine solidarity between them was as solid as ever.

“Sorry we couldn’t get the money back—but your mom’s picture is safe," Catherine smirked.

Grissom shot her a mild glare.“And my pass?”

Guiltily Warrick and Catherine looked at each other; Sara laughed softly.“It got confiscated, didn’t it? He’s going to have to go get a new one because the old one’s in evidence lockup.”

Catherine nodded; Warrick blinked.“Hey Gris, you can have mine."

Grissom looked a little hurt, but both Catherine and Sara laughed. The group moved to the table, and Grissom sat down, looking up at them.

“You didn’t have to do this—“ he began awkwardly, but Warrick shook his head as Catherine snorted, waving a hand at him.

“Please! We’ve got a reputation to maintain, and anyway, the case was classic textbook. I could have done it in my sleep.”

“I think I did," Warrick grumbled, but he smiled. Sara quietly picked up the soup mugs and cleared them to the kitchen while Catherine studied her retreating back.

“So Grissom-- why’s Sara on your emergency card now? I thought _I_ was your contact." she demanded. He blinked at her for a moment, but Sara spoke up from the kitchen before he could reply.

“Oh _that_ \-- it’s because you’ve got Lindsey to look out for. Grissom told me the last thing he wanted was to have you scramble for a sitter along with everything else in an emergency call. So I told him I’d watch his back if he’d do the same for me—quid pro quo.” She paused, wiping the counter before adding, “I mean after all, both of OUR nearest relatives are out of state."

Catherine shifted her glance from her boss to her co-worker and nodded. “God, the two of you are so damn practical."

“It just made sense,” Grissom agreed, looking at his hands.

Warrick sighed.“Well let’s not make a habit of needing it, okay? I for one do NOT need the stress.”

Grissom managed a faint smile at that and sighed.  
“None of us do. I’m grateful for what you guys did, but go home and get some rest. I’ll be in on Monday night," he held up a hand as Catherine shot him a sharp look, “Doing paperwork for a day or two and then we can all get back to business.”

The firm tone reassured Catherine more than anything else; she rose and smiled at Grissom, running a hand over his shoulder. “Okay, okay, the boss has spoken. Sara, do you need someone to spell you?”

She shrugged, managing a sardonic smile as she dried out a mug.“Didn’t have much planned for the weekend anyway, so it’s cool.”

“Okay then. Call if you need a break,” Catherine insisted, picking up her purse and looking at Warrick. They said their goodbyes and left, walking down the front steps into the late afternoon sunshine.

Catherine shook her head sadly. “God, Warrick—do you ever think Grissom’s going to realize that she’s got a crush on him?”

Her companion gave a rueful shake of his head.  
“Seems to be the only clue he’s never picked up.”

In the townhouse, Grissom picked up the wallet and carefully opened it, strong fingers gently prying the secret pocket deep within it, but touch told him what he wanted to know and he sighed with relief.

“Grissom?”

He looked up at Sara, who was peeking over his shoulder. She gave him bright look and he hesitated. Then, in a decisive move he pulled the paper from the pocket and slowly unfolded it between his fingers, holding it out. Sara glanced at the single sentence on it.

_In the event of my death, tell Sara I loved her._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

 

“You can’t go in there.” He insisted, blocking the door with his body, still looking a little dizzy, but determined.

“Why not?” Sara asked, staring up into his face, her arms crossed, her expression amused and less than patient.

“Because I said.”

“Grissom, it’s just a closet. You need a clean shirt.”

“Then I’ll get it, Sara. I’m a grownup, I CAN dress myself.”

“Hmmmm," she stalled for time, grinning and noting his glint of amusement. Sara stepped closer, pressing against him, glad of the warmth he radiated. It was well after sunset now, and the townhouse was cooler than she was used to. 

Grissom dropped an arm around her shoulders, resting his chin on the top of her head.  
“Sara, stop pouting. I don’t have some secret transvestite wardrobe, or a pornography collection in there—unless you count a Boy Scout Guide to knot-tying.”

She laughed, and raised her face, one elegant eyebrow arching at him playfully. He spun her away from the closet in a few easy steps and gave her a little push along her shoulder blades.

“Now you’ve got me really curious, and that’s going to come back and bite you on the ass, Grissom," she warned over her shoulder.

He shot her a skeptical look and came to a decision with a soft grin, the light glinting off his glasses.  
“If you must know, I’ve got presents in there. Christmas presents.”

Sara’s eyes went big, and she spun around, staring at him, her sweet mouth dropping open in delighted surprise. He anticipated her move and caught her shoulder as she tried to dart around him.  
“Oh wow! Really? For me? Presents?”

“Sara," he warned, trying not to laugh, “First rule of Christmas is: you snoop, you lose.”

“No way—snoopers have all the _fun_!"

“Snoopers lose the lovely thrill of anticipation,” he chided. “If you find all your presents, then you’ll have nothing to look forward to Christmas morning except your stocking.”

Sara shot him a mirthful look, dark eyes sparkling as she sized him up. “Those may have been your lips moving, Gris, but those are your mother’s words, loud and clear.”

He tried to look virtuous and failed, his mouth twisting in a wry grin, provoked, Sara suspected, by memories. All he replied was, “Fifty four days and counting, so I’m warning you, stay away from the closet.”

“Pfffft—you have to sleep sometime,” she challenged, warming to the tease. He followed her out to the living room, shaking his head.

“I’ll tie you TO me," he threatened. Sara gave him a challenging look, her lashes long and dark. He set her down on the loveseat and held up a warning finger. “I’m getting a shirt and then we’re going out. Stay put, please.”

“Fine," she replied, crossing her arms as she leaned back against the leather. As he moved back towards the bedroom, Sara took a deep breath, her mind racing.

Christmas. For that matter, Thanksgiving. She hadn’t given either one of them a serious thought yet, even though the displays were up in the malls and the stores, and now the myriad of new possibilities loomed before her, all of them slightly scary and brightly exciting at the same time.

Holidays with Grissom . . . she imagined him watching football with her Dad; saw him eating mashed potatoes and gravy, helping with dishes; hanging ornaments up high; sleeping in her old room, the morning sun filtering through the blinds and striping his skin with light and shadow . . .

“Sara?” Grissom was back, staring at her as he finished the top buttons of his shirt. She blinked, managing a quick smile to cover her reverie  
“Sorry, lost in thought.”

 

*** *** ***

Neither one of them wanted to linger at the café; Grissom felt the nagging throb of another headache coming on and Sara fought the urge to look over her shoulder constantly in a new sense of paranoia. They left, carrying the remains of their Key Lime pie in a Styrofoam box. The wind had picked up; Sara could hear it whistling through the streets in an eerie way. When she looked over at Grissom he had his eyes closed behind his glasses.

“Home,” he requested, his voice slow and deep.

She didn’t mistake his meaning, and slowly pulled out into traffic. She reached one hand over for his, squeezing it gently. “Head hurting badly?”

“No, not badly, just a low level that’s making it hard to concentrate,” he replied.

Sara looked ahead into the dark night, smiling quickly.“So I guess this is sort of it, isn’t it? The real start of our week together . . .”

Grissom turned his head and finally opened his eyes.  
“You probably have no idea how utterly petrified I am of screwing this up, Sara.”

She managed a twisted smile of her own as a wave of tenderness rolled through her, warming her right down to her toes.

“Oh I have a pretty good idea, trust me. When I got that call from Catherine this morning that you were missing, it took me about three seconds to decide that once I found you that was going to be IT, Grissom. No more lurking around the edges of this thing, no matter how rough things might get, professionally or personally.”

Her tone was husky and sweet; with unshed tears lurking in it. Grissom looked through his lashes at her, a glance she found hard to break away from as they turned onto Caliente Way.

“So why didn’t you tell Catherine the truth about the insurance?” he asked softly.

“Why didn’t YOU?” she snorted.

“ . . . Because it wasn’t the time or place to get into it,” Grissom admitted with a sigh. “I’d rather we picked our moment, if possible.”

“It may not be, hon. If Warrick had found that note--"

“He’d do exactly the same thing he did tonight; say nothing, especially in front of Catherine. If I’ve taught him anything in the past few years, it’s a balance of discretion and judgment.”

Sara turned off the engine and they sat in the car. Looking at the dark house for a moment, both of them quiet.

“So . . .” Grissom murmured, reaching for her hand. For the first time Sara could remember, his palm was cooler than hers although his fingers were just as strong. She gave a squeeze back.

“Wanna be roommates?” she asked softly.

“Yes.”

“Roommates who share a room?”

“Yes.”

“Roommates who share a bed?”

“Naked?” he asked, cocking his head.

Sara laughed. “I see your libido missed out on the concussion.”

“Sullivan genes from my mother’s side,” he told her as they climbed out of the car. “The men all have very healthy prostates and a relentless drive to use them continually.”

“God! TMI, Grissom," they mounted the steps together and both of them fumbled for keys. Grissom was faster, and unlocked the door. Sara glanced at him and before she could react he reached for her, strong arms dropping around her slender frame.

“If I can’t carry you over the threshold, I can at least kiss you through it,” he sighed, dropping his mouth on hers as she gasped.

Grissom spun them through the door together as they kissed, leaving Sara dizzy in more ways than one. Wildly, she tried to hit the light switch near the front door but missed as he sucked happily on her bottom lip, distracting her in the most enchanting way.

“ _That_ was pretty romantic," she accused, trying to catch her breath a moment later. The living room was shadowy, and she liked the intimacy it made as she let her hands touch his face.

“I always wanted to sort of Cary Grant you through a room like that,” he murmured, his glasses gleaming in a shaft of reflected light. Sara laughed, letting her purse drop and closing the door behind them with one foot.

“Well it was wonderful—got any other fantasies you want to try out?”

The minute the words left her mouth she flushed; even though she could barely see him in the dark, Sara could sense Grissom’s refocused intensity. His hands slid down her arms and gripped her wrists for a moment; then he let go and merely stroked them softly.

“The better question would be what fantasies do YOU have, Sara? Tell me what you crave; I’ll give it to you . . .” he pleaded in a low, urgent tone.

She shivered in the dark, grateful that it hid her reaction. Buying time, she slowly kicked off her shoes and steered them under the back of the sofa before speaking.

“What I want, Grissom? I want what’s hardest for you to give, baby. I want you to be the boss of me . . .”

“Sara--" his voice held a note of uncertainty, and she laughed in a gentle way.

“I know you’re not up to it tonight; I understand that, but sometime soon, that would be so wonderfully—“

Grissom’s breathing shifted and Sara realized he was circling around her, pressing against her back as his hands slid around her waist. He spoke softly in her ear.

“Cranberry,” he purred.

Sara made an encouraging sound and Grissom continued, his lips brushing the sensitive rim, his whiskers tickling.

“A lovely color, one that looks good on you, a color that means . . .?” he prompted gently. Sara understood, and her knees went weak; she sagged against him for a moment.

A game.

“ . . . Means stop. Gil, are you sure?” she asked, trying to hide her excitement under her concern.  
He heard it though. He always did, and the entire atmosphere of the living room changed, becoming sultry through the promise hanging in the still night air. 

“Oh yes.” Grissom’s grip around her tightened just enough to make her pulse race, to send a throb of heat between her legs.

“But your headache . . .” she squirmed, only to be tugged more tightly. Grissom’s fingers slid down her arms and snagged her slender wrists.

“Cranberry is for me too," he assured her in an undertone. After a moment’s pause she gave an experimental yank against his grip, making him laugh once more, a knowing sound.

“Nice try, but you’re not going anywhere Sara. Not tonight. You’re my toy."

While his injured hand held her wrists to her chest, squeezing them lightly in his big grip, the other moved to the side zipper of her slacks, pulling it down enough to slide his hand in.

Sara shuddered happily at Grissom’s touch, strong fingers stroking the damp silky nylon of her panties with teasing intent. She tried to breathe normally, but standing in the dark, trapped against his big back, had her quivering.

“I love your panties. Take them off," he commanded, letting her hands go. Sara wavered a moment, but his fingers continued to dance over the taut fabric covering her mound. His other hand slid up along the side of her neck to cup under her chin from behind, the finger splints cool on her skin.  
“Do it.”

With trembling fingers, Sara slowly pushed her slacks down, letting them fall to the carpet in a whisper of cloth. Grissom rocked forward a step, urging her out of them.

He sighed.“Legs like a gazelle, Sara. Legs I could eat up. But you still haven’t done what I’ve asked, have you?”

Hesitantly she shifted her fingers to her hips, feeling the contours of his strong body behind her change. She rubbed against him, making him suck in a breath and his grip on her chin tightened.

“Ohh, I can tell you’re going to be a handful tonight," he warned a little breathlessly. The heat of his insistent erection pressed against her ass, and Sara squirmed again.

“Grissommmmm . . ." she moaned, savoring her helplessness.

“Take them off, Sara. I want your panties on my palm NOW,” came his mildly ruthless voice. Shakily Sara shimmied out of them and let them fall on the tops of her feet. The hand between her legs slid down the inside of one smooth thigh and then up the other for a moment, caressing the soft skin in long, languid strokes.

“Like hot rose petals," he grunted. Sara felt her nipples pebble up hard and fast. 

She swallowed convulsively. “I-I can’t reach them . . .” she whispered. He let go of her chin and slid his other hand away from her soft fur very slowly, letting his palm caress the curves and hollows of her hip, the indentation of her narrow waist, the proud cage of her ribs along her side under her shirt.

“Pick them up.”

Sara did, quickly, scooping them off the carpet and half turning, as she handed them to Grissom. The gleam of his teeth in the dim light made her shiver again, made the liquid heat pulse through her veins.  
“Too slow, Sara.”

He loomed over her and she backed up, hands against his chest as he advanced, herding her into the kitchen as he laughed.

“They’re warm and damp. They smell wonderful, honey," came his soft croon as he trapped her up against the counter.

Sara tensed, the anticipation a relentless thrumming through her now as he held the scrap of fabric up. Dim light coming through the kitchen window touched his face with silver light. He slowly twisted the panties into a long, thin cord of cloth and cocked his head, his glasses flashing.

Sara looked at him in the tight little pause of the moment, feeling the lovely reassurance of power and recognizing the truth of what’d she’d read, of what she’d known all along.

She knew who was really in control.

Slowly Sara shook her head, letting her hair swing, her chest heaving a little.

“No, you can’t, please," came her husky plea, hungry for him. Grissom sighed harshly, and slid his arms around her, gripping her wrists, crossing them as he swiftly tied them together behind her back with the panties.

“You drive me crazy, Sara," he growled, as his fingers tightened the knot. She gave herself over to the struggle and Grissom kissed her as she thrashed, hands sliding over her skin, pulling her shirt apart, tugging her bra up from her chest.

It was good, and wild, and Sara moaned as his mouth nipped and tasted and suckled her skin. Pleasure shocks jolted through her when he slid fingers into her hair and pulled to tip her face to his, and his slow deep kisses robbed her of breath.

“Part of me is _not_ good, Sara honey. There’s a very bad side of me that wants you just like this all the time. Mine to take and touch and taste, honey. If I want to play with your nipples or stroke your pussy I can. I will.”

“Yess, oh yesss,” came her urgent whispers, and Grissom throbbed to the excited rasp of her breathing.

She was so fine-boned, he realized, so coltishly long, and radiating ripe arousal under his questing mouth. The tang of her skin, the faint quiver of her muscles under the tickle of his beard tightened the relentless need growing between his legs, and Grissom scooped her up, plonking her bare ass on the cool tile counter, earning a gasp from Sara when he did so.

“Hey!” came her petulant but excited yelp; he nipped her chin and let his hands slide to part her beautiful thighs.

The moonlight spilling through the kitchen window added a surrealistic almost film noir touch; Grissom drank in the gorgeous image of Sara. HIS Sara, her dark hair tangled around her face, her big dark eyes and pouting mouth tinted in shadows as she sat on the counter with her hands tied behind her back. She arched a little, her eyes never leaving his.  
“I like you bad, Grissom,” came her slightly choked confession, “God, I LOVE you bad!"

Her words were almost too much, creating a sensory overload of taste, touch and tone; Grissom’s chest heaved under his damp shirt as he pulled her to him, gripping her bare shoulders tightly.

“Tell me . . . you WANT this, Sara sweetheart, TELL me—" he rumbled between wet, demanding licks along her throat. She wrapped her long bare legs around him and leaned back a little, trying to brace on her bound hands.

“Please." She rubbed lewdly against the thick rise of his fly, “Please, Grissom!”

He cupped the back of her slender neck and tipped her head down, the metal splints on his fingers cool on her skin. Sara groaned, watching him tug off his shirt and unzip his fly, slowly caressing the thick shaft of his erection as it surged forth. It rubbed her inner thigh, searingly hot and alive. Sara felt herself tense with erotic anticipation; Grissom’s chuckle echoed out into the dark kitchen, a sweetly dangerous sound.

“Hungry for me?” he demanded, shifting his fingers across her soft cleft, lightly teasing the delicate folds of her sex. His touch was brazen, and when he slid a finger into her, Sara couldn’t hold back a soft little cry of delight. Grissom rubbed his cock on her thigh as his touch pushed deeper.

“Mmmmmm, yes, nice," he told her, adding another finger to the tightness, letting his thumb stroke the tight little bud of her clitoris in a way that had Sara writhing on the counter around him.

“I want you IN me!” she hissed, caught between hot joy and frustration, making Grissom shudder, his cock leaving pearly streaks along her thigh.

“Beg, bad girl,” he demanded, moving his hand in a lovely rhythm into her, cupping the back of her neck, making her watch him toy with her lush sex.  
Sara bit her plump lower lip, fighting herself, but it was too late, and as Grissom’s strong thick fingers pumped deeply into the wet tight cleft, she spasmed. Arching her spine she let out a wild little moan while her body throbbed around his touch, clenching greedily.

When she could breathe again, Sara opened her eyes, shivering as goose bumps rippled over her chest. Grissom was between her thighs, rolling a condom on, laughing softly. He rubbed his slick fingers over his bare chest.

“Marked with your scent,” he announced in a thick, hungry voice. “MY turn."

Sara stiffened as he pulled her roughly to the edge of the counter and sank himself into her with a guttural groan of pleasure. Instantly she echoed the sound, her legs sliding up. Grissom caught her calves, his grip shifting to her ankles, holding them up and high, opening her more widely as he stroked himself into the dark cleft between her open thighs.  
Sara stretched back on top of her hands, on the cold Mexican tiles of the counter, feeling the raw power of Grissom mounting her, loving the moonlight as it silvered over his haunted expression. His body drove hard into hers, the lovely wet rhythm loud between them.

“I . . . Sara!" he gasped, straining to hold back, his grip on her slender ankles wet with sweat. She rolled her hips up to meet his thrusts, laughing wickedly.

“Take me, baby. I’m the bad girl, and you WANT me so much . . ."

He bent his head forward, glasses sliding down his nose and the fingers around her ankles tightened as his hips rocked forward. “Ohhhhhoney—“ he growled helplessly as he came. Sara cried out at the sheer beauty of his face when he tipped his head back, a slave to the passion of his big, rawboned body. She felt the pulses of his orgasm within her, alive and strong, and before she could stop herself Sara started to cry.

Grissom draped himself over her, panic in his eyes. He scooped her shoulders up off the tile; nuzzling her so close she could feel the hammering of his pulse against her, the wet scratch of his beard on her face.

“Sara! God, Sara, honey!” he pleaded, trying to tear at the bonds behind her back while she pressed her face to his shoulder, trying to stop the flow of her tears. In desperation he fumbled for the knife block and yanked the little paring blade out, slicing through the panties and hugging her close.

Sara clung to him, desperate to make him understand.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry!" he rumbled, stroking her hair, kissing her temple. She managed to get a hand into the curly damp tangle of his hair and tug; he looked up and she kissed him, hard.

“Mmmhphhhh . . . .” He gave up after a while, and Sara gentled her passion, letting her tongue talk to him in ways that didn’t need words at all, her hands sliding along his shoulders and back.

When she finally let him breathe, she smiled crookedly up into his face. His glasses had steamed up and she laughed. “That was _happy_ crying. More specifically ‘I love you so damn MUCH Gil Grissom’ crying. Going to have to get used to that, pal.”

He gave a sigh of relief, and tipped his head, eyes soft behind his fogged lenses. “How do I distinguish it from ‘you are such a bastard and I hate you’ crying?”

Sara gave him a beautiful grin and slid her hands behind his head, pulling him in for another kiss, whispering, “The latter is never gonna happen . . .”

*** *** ***

Two people in bed. Two lamps on, one on each nightstand. Two magazines; Entomology Digest and FBI Forensic Quarterly.

Two smug expressions.

One pair of pajamas.

The ring tone was clear and unmistakable; Grissom reached for his cell phone, shooting Sara a worried glance.

“Caller ID?”

“Not this time," he replied, flipping the phone open and adding, “Grissom."

Sara watched his brows draw together as a tinny voice echoed. She shifted closer to him, trying to listen in.

“What? When did she die?”

Alarmed, Sara sat up, but Grissom waved a hand. Interpreting the need for paper and a pen, Sara scrambled for them. He spoke again.“Isn’t that kind of rushing things? Alex . . . Okay, you have a point, yes. Of course not!"

Sara watched as Grissom wrote something unreadable and snorted into the phone.

“Fine. Yes I’ll do it; I just never thought it was going to happen. Yes. Tell her that if you want. Okay. Give her my love then. Deepest sympathy and congratulations—yes. Bye.”

He broke the connection and blinked. Sara hesitated to say anything, but Grissom looked up and laughed, shaking his head in a rueful way as he gently set the phone down.

“That was Alex . . . his wife died.”

Sara tried to think of something to say, but only succeeded in letting her mouth fall open. Grissom smirked. “Lady Pamela fell down a flight of stairs at the manor house in Kent, and now Alex wants to marry Mom. They’re cutting short the trip and coming home to get married here.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> When I originally wrote this I had a goal to make sure that Sara and Grissom had important discussions together. Birth control was a big topic, but also their religious beliefs as well. I've always felt that well-rounded characters touched on issues like those.


End file.
